


While lights were paling

by catalectic



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3291026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catalectic/pseuds/catalectic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One evening in Ost-in-Edhil. Annatar speaks. Celebrimbor listens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	While lights were paling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taenia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taenia/gifts).



To watch Annatar work is a revelation.

Celebrimbor has long found that, with coaxing and a sure hand, the shapes hidden within metals will reveal themselves to him. Annatar, though, needs no such exploration – metals and stone seem to fall into shape at his barest touch, and Celebrimbor thinks sometimes that he too feels some of this influence, wishes to bend to the Maia, to see what shape might emerge.

Now, Celebrimbor stands in the doorway of Annatar’s workshop, watching the deep shadows thrown over the room by the light of the forge, and the man himself, gilded by firelight, pouring molten metal with infinite precision into a plaster mould. Celebrimbor is unwilling to move, to speak, to break the seeming reverence of this moment. He breathes hot air, tastes copper on his tongue, and as he takes in Annatar’s form, he feels a different heat entirely run through him.

“Are you planning to decorate my doorway all evening?” Annatar’s amused voice startles him, and he flushes, suddenly keenly aware of his gaze. He shakes his head and steps forward.

“Elrond and his company have left the city a little earlier than planned. I thought to come down here to work – the visit was…”

“Frustrating?” Annatar suggests, setting down his tools with a hint of a smile still lingering. Celebrimbor returns the smile and nods.

“For both of us, I think. I believe we want to like one another more than we can ever really manage. He declined to speak with you, you know.” Annatar chuckles at that and strips off his apron, hangs it on the single hook in the bare stone wall.

“He is within his rights to distrust me. Between Morgoth’s black influence and the destruction of his homeland, his experience with the Ainur hardly predisposes him to trust.”

“One could say the same of Fëanorians,” Celebrimbor says dryly, “and yet we manage conversations, even.”

Annatar laughs, and moves over to the workbench underneath the wide window. He seats himself and gestures for Celebrimbor to join him. After a moment’s hesitation, he does.

“It feels strange to say so now, but I am almost glad that I was turned away from Lindon,” Annatar says. Celebrimbor slants him a questioning look.

“Had I been accepted at Lindon, I should never have found the Gwaith-i-Mírdain,” he continues, “and although I was charged with bringing knowledge to the Elves on this side of the sea, I believe that I have learned from you also.” He smiles and takes Celebrimbor’s hand. “There are things that I could not have done without the perspective that you gave me, dear friend.”

Celebrimbor tells himself that he is not disappointed at the last words, and smiles in return. 

“Is this your latest project?” he asks, nodding to the mould. “It looks a little different. Last I saw you, you were making daggers, were you not?”

“Ah, yes,” Annatar says, “I was. My attentions have turned in a somewhat different direction.” He leans back and gazes thoughtfully upwards. 

“To the decorative?” Celebrimbor guesses from the mould. “That is something of a change. I thought your concern was to be bolstering and advancing elven crafts. I recall you saying something derogatory about frivolous intricacy not too long ago.” 

His tone is teasing, but the look Annatar shoots him is suddenly piercing. Celebrimbor swallows and sits back a little. He is difficult to read, this mercurial smith. It feels sometimes as though he is speaking to one man of several, never sure which aspect of Annatar he might encounter. Yet somehow, it is perversely attractive to have to work so hard to read him – every positive encounter feels like another small victory.

Annatar shakes his head, and just like that he is benign and smiling once more.

“Not decorative, as such. Not solely, anyway.” He stands and crosses to the dark wood shelves by the door. From the top shelf, he brings down a small wooden cask, and comes to lay it on the desk. He pushes it towards Celebrimbor and nods.

Celebrimbor opens it carefully. The inside is lined in dark velvet, and a thin silver ring sits upon it. It is set with a clear blue stone, and around the inside of the band, he can pick out writing. He strains his eyes to see it.

“Jewellery? This certainly is a departure.”

“Ah, Tyelpë,” Annatar says fondly, and Celebrimbor glances up, startled. “Nothing so simple. In fact, the idea came from you – from the inscriptions your people put into their swords.”

Celebrimbor takes out the ring and holds it carefully up to the small light from the window. Annatar speaks in a low, calming voice.

“Your people write words into their weapons, into their armour, to fortify themselves. Their words can invest these things with enchantment to some extent, for warning light to glow at an enemy’s approach, or for an ever-sharp edge. I thought to apply the principle a little differently.”

The ring is slightly warm to his touch, and now Celebrimbor can read the writing, he sees that it is some sort of verse – abstract but clear enough, speaking of strengthening the spirit, of giving power to thought.

“I am less concerned with the physical. I think more of the soul. What could be stronger than the imperishable fire that lights each of Ilúvatar’s children? I have seen the strength of an individual for myself – the truly strong of spirit may bend under the heaviest weights but are not so easily broken. This, then, will be a talisman. Invested with the spirit and the ring providing housing for enchantment to enhance it in return. I am strengthened by this ring, because part of me is bound into it.” 

Suddenly, Celebrimbor feels a cold sickness in his stomach. He has heard words like this before, in a lifetime now gone. The ring falls from nerveless fingers to clatter on the bench, and he looks up at the Maia.

“You would put a part of yourself into your creation? And what then?” Annatar stands, and pulls him up. He takes one of Celebrimbor’s hands, and with the other touches his chin to bring his face up. His eyes are wide and fathomless, and Celebrimbor is afraid.

“I do not mean to be the man your grandfather was, Tyelpë,” he says, his left hand drifting up to the elf’s cheek. “If I lost this, I would not feel the need to go to war in chase of it.”

“But still you are tied to it-“

“Say rather that it is tied to me.”

“I cannot see that this is preferable.”

“It magnifies potential, my dear,” Annatar says, his other hand now resting on Celebrimbor’s hip, the heat palpable through his clothes. “It takes what is inside and makes it greater.”

Celebrimbor finds it suddenly hard to breathe. His eyes are fixed by Annatar’s gaze. He wants at once never to have come here and to follow this further. That small part of him that has always driven him to the heights of his craft cries out at the potential of such a thing. To have something like this! A path to yet greater achievements, to more knowledge, to skills beyond his reach! He looks into the dark eyes, and the voice in his mind that screams the folly of these thoughts is dampened, almost gone. Annatar’s voice is like honey.

“Can you imagine, Tyelpë? To have only to put on a ring before finding the ways of your mind suddenly open? To be confronted with undeniable truths, to have total clarity of mind? You already have knowledge beyond most of your kin – imagine what more I could show you if you allowed me.” 

Annatar has come so close now that the last of his words are almost breathed into his skin. Celebrimbor feels the heat radiate from the golden body, and at the points of contact between them. His hands come to rest on the Maia’s bare arms, fingers tingling at the touch.

“What would you show me?” he murmurs, intoxicated.

Annatar surges forward and crushes their lips together. Celebrimbor cannot help but respond, and groans deep in his throat as the hand at his hip tightens possessively, then moves upward. He buries his hands in Annatar’s golden hair and shivers as fingers trail lightly under his shirt. He feels lightheaded, his whole body practically vibrates, he can feel the blood rushing in his veins.

Annatar slides one hand firmly up the plane of Celebrimbor’s back and the other round the back of his neck, holding him firmly in place. He presses him back, back against the workbench as he kisses and bites at the elf’s mouth. Celebrimbor is bent back, off balance, Annatar’s solid weight pressing him back further. He throws one arm back to steady himself and shifts, and there, suddenly, he can feel how hard Annatar is in his breeches. He tilts back from the kiss what little distance the proprietary grip at his neck allows, and gasps for breath. His body thrums with want, and he aches for Annatar in a way he has never ached for any other.

“Tyelpë,” Annatar growls.

Celebrimbor falls back against the bench with a thump as the strength of his arm fails. Annatar is irresistible head above him, between his legs. He feels teeth at his neck and cries out. He cannot form words – all he can do is gasp and pull Annatar closer. 

“You are brilliant, Tyelpë,” Annatar mouths into his throat. He arches back further. “I see you work with the stone and metal, I see you understand them-“ Here he pulls back, rising over Celebrimbor, his chest heaving. He drags his hand over the front of the elf’s breeches and Celebrimbor cries out at the touch. The elf’s legs come up by reflex, bracketing Annatar’s hips as he tugs him in close.

“I want to see into your mind,” Annatar growls, “I want to open you up and know every part of you.” He presses the elf’s hands down next to his head. “Let me have you, Tyelpë. Let me in.” He leans in to claim Celebrimbor’s mouth again, more fierce than before.

“Yes!” Celebrimbor gasps when the Maia draws back, “Ah, please, yes, yes…”

Annatar stands back to pull, half frantic, at the laces of Celebrimbor’s breeches. He drags Celebrimbor’s legs off him, and pulls down the fabric. The breath is driven from the elf’s lungs as he is flipped over, face down over the bench. He cannot draw breath, he is dizzy with need. His prick hangs heavy, throbbing between his legs. He hears a bottle uncorked behind him, and his stomach tightens.

At the first press of slick fingers against him, he almost screams. A strangled sound escapes, and he writhes, hears Annatar laugh, dark and low behind him. The fingers breach him and press suddenly and deeply. Lightning shoots through him as they stroke over his prostate again and again, and he is weak with want. He presses his face into the desk and heaves in a breath as another finger enters him, opening him up. Annatar’s other hand reaches between his legs and his fingers trail lightly up Celebrimbor’s erection. The elf shivers, wrecked and barely coherent, and keens. 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Annatar’s hands pull away. Celebrimbor feels the press of the Maia’s hardness against his opening. It presses inward, and he gives way before it. He is shaking, every part of him tense and sparking. The Maia presses all the way in, filling him totally, and growls in satisfaction.

“An-uhn...Annatar,” Celebrimbor gasps, pressing back. The Maia leans down and braces himself against the bench, then pulls back and thrusts hard. Celebrimbor scratches at the desk, trying to find purchase. A hand fists in his hair and pulls his head to one side. Annatar sinks his teeth into the elf’s neck, and fucks into him, hard and fast.

Celebrimbor shakes, ruined and desperate. Every thrust shakes a keening noise from his throat. He is on fire, he is alive and taken by the Maia. He reaches down and palms his cock desperately. Annatar presses him down harder into the wooden surface and knocks away the elf’s quickly working hand.

At the touch of Annatar’s hand on his cock, he is gone. Once, twice, that burning hand pulls and he is coming. The edges of his vision go white as he jerks and shudders through it, panting. The Maia’s hand is heavy on his back and he grunts as he pushes into Celebrimbor with all of his weight. He goes taut and the elf feels him come inside him. 

They are still in the moments afterwards, legs barely able to support their weight. Annatar pulls carefully out, still braced over Celebrimbor on trembling arms.

Celebrimbor slides to his knees, lightheaded. He rests his head on the edge of the workbench and closes his eyes, trying to regain his equilibrium. His heart pounds in his chest. 

He feels Annatar drop to his knees beside him, and he rolls his head to the side, opening his eyes. The Maia’s clothes are back in order, but there is a sheen of sweat over his forehead, and he is breathing hard. He reaches out and draws Celebrimbor to collapse against his chest, and the elf goes gladly. Annatar’s fingers run through his hair.

They are still for a few moments. The stone floor is cold against Celebrimbor’s legs, but he is glad of it, still burning. 

“I will show you everything,” Annatar murmurs to him. “Everything you want to know. And in return, you will teach me the elven crafts.” The elf can only nod against his chest. “Together we will create something greater than either of us apart.”

Celebrimbor closes his eyes, and smiles.


End file.
